


Darkness Isn't Just In Our Hearts (It's Everywhere)

by TheOnlyHuman



Series: AU: Deep Claws [9]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alfred Pennyworth is Dead, Alfred needs his own comic series, Batman - Freeform, Coma, Dead Bruce Wayne, Death, Dick Grayson has a Broken Back, Dick Grayson is the Glue of the BatFam, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone had issues, Except for Bruce, F/M, Female Dick Grayson, Grief, Grieving, Jason Todd is Alive, Jason Todd is Batman, Lets face it, Love is harder than it looks, PTSD, Pain, Resurrected Jason Todd, Sadness, Sleep Deprivation, a funeral that isnt really a funeral, and Alfred, batclan, for both author and characters, im sorry, seriously he put up with so much shit over the years, the Batfamily - Freeform, the bat family are issues, they need help, theyre so sad its not even funny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-03-20 11:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyHuman/pseuds/TheOnlyHuman
Summary: (2022-??)  This is the story of how Rachel Wayne became the greatest Mayor Gotham City had ever seen. Unfortunately, it's a rockier tale than you might think.





	1. The Butler who was Loved by the Bats

**Author's Note:**

> AKA Alfred was the Batler. Lmao. 
> 
> (I'm sorry.)

 

 

 

Alfred's death came as a shock. Not because he was too young to die. He was — _had_ been— anything but. What age had he been: 76? 82? It came as a shock because it was so, so _silent_.

Jason, just like the others of his little makeshift family, was used to death being loud. It hurt. There was attention pulled from current events to that one. People noticed things. Death was boisterous. Death thundered in your ears and head and made everything hurt and made you scream before it sucked you down down _down._

But Alfred Pennyworth had went silently, loyal to the end. Worst of all, it had been a heart attack.

They were detectives. A family of skilled —albeit some moreso than others— crime fighting detectives. They figured out Riddler's masterplans in hours if not minutes where it took the cops months, they tracked down murderers quicker than even the best bounty hunter or mercenary. They were the Wayne Family. The Bat Clan.

They were meant to be able to tell. Meant to know when one of their own was going downhill.

Yet they _hadn't_.

And Alfred had died all alone in bed, on a cold _cold_ night where _none_ of them had been home.

It broke Jason's heart, and not just because Rachel had fallen into a coma, unable to say goodbye. It made him angry. Angry that they hadn't realised or noticed the signs sooner.

The signs that Alfred was slowing down, getting older. He'd taken longer to walk from the Den to the Kitchen, or from the Study to the Living Room. But they hadn't cared, they'd brushed it off as him cooling down, settling in with helping them more now Rachel was down. And now Alfred was dead.

It made him angry they hadn't been able to help, frustrated they hadn't been there for him, annoyed that _Alfred Pennyworth_ had _died_ _all alone_ because once upon a time Jason Peter Todd had died all alone and he hadn't liked it one bit.

 

 

The funeral is a solemn, detatched affair. No public Wake is held, due to the very fact that there is no one to come to it but them. Alfred's only family —a niece and a grandson— claim to not have the money to support a week-long stay in America and ignore Jason's offers of money, stating they will come for the funeral only.

That leaves Jason and his kids to hold a Wake that has his hair greying at the sides. (Y _es,_ something whispers, sounding so sad. _Your kids, your responsibility no_ _w._ ) There is no food, there is no laughter. Just alcohol and sad, stoic faces as they drink to forget what they remember. Drink to forget the pain death has only brought and only ever will bring. They drink in remembrance of a legend, bottles hoisted as high as weary arms will go in a silent, never-ending toast.

Jason can't even bring himself to care about the _No Alcohol_ rules for their gigs because he knows B broke them more than a couple of times.

Chairs are pulled up haphazardly around the casket which had remained closed after Damian had slammed it shut, the boy seconds away from tears. They're in a back room of the Manor, near the backyard so that they don't have to walk too far with it before Alf is buried. Vodka and beer is passed around with fevor, despite Barbara's tipsy murmurings of their rules of no consumption. No one seems to hear anything, but if they do its only the swish of alcohol in glass that's audible. And yet the room is all noise, so loud in his silence, white noise and screams inside his ears and loud breaths rattling down his spine, Rachel's hospital heart monitor thumping in his chest even though she and it are miles away.

Eventually the bottle is passed to him, at where he sits with the coffin strategically placed to his seven o'clock. From his vantage point, Jason can see them all, his family all littered around him like a pack of wild dogs awaiting their leader. With the looming menace deep in his mind gurgling they have no leader he drowns the rest of the bottle in a hurry to hide his sobbing choke that burns on the way down and the whelming of tears. Stephanie scowls at him and stands on wobbling legs to go get more, grumbling about he wanting some too, but there's a beer nudged into his hands and his new goal is to drown out the world and all its pain.

All its god forsaken _,_ unwanted _pain._

Stephanie returns, bottles in her arms from Bruce's study (because where else would there be drink?) and Jason says nothing.

Jason couldn't find it in him to scold or stop Barbara when she'd drowned half the bottle, so why should he stop the others? Especially himself.

It feels like some shitty drama, where the sound is dulled and the world is in black and white but Jason can't stop that. He does nothing to evade the deathening, suffocating silence of mourning and grief as he sits with the family that now rests upon his shoulders and his alone.

Rachel is down, and he tries to hold in the tears at that thought, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Her back is fucked, she's been in a coma for the past two weeks and when ( _if,_ whispers something so, so quiet) she wakes up the doctors are unsure if she'll even be able to feel her legs, nevermind walk again.

When they's gotten home after her capsize, Alf had stared him down and clapped him on the shoulder. His exact words, "I'm here for you, Master Jason."

And now he wasn't.

Alfred had offered to help and Jason had leaned on him too much, just like he had with Rachel, and eventually the old man had toppled. Toppled like everyone else under his immense weight. He wasn't getting up again and quite possibly that was the worst thing about it all. Alfred was dead because of him and him alone. He could bring him back but that was selfish, Jason refused to put anyone else through the Hell that was the Pit's Demons. Now he had to hold up this family by himself or risk someone else falling and not coming back from it.

Jason didn't think he could take another fall. He didn't think he'd come back from it when it was one of his own. Not _another_ one.

"What do we do now?" It was Barbara who spoke. She was staring at him with dead eyes that barely looked green, vodka bottle's neck clutched loosely between her fingers. Her shirt was wrinkled and her hair tangled, both from a quick change after a Patrol.

She and Cullen had had a near miss with Killer Croc before they'd came home and had been told the news. They'd came home so early and yet too late.

Jason swallowed thickly. If he did nothing he didn't have to take responsibility for what would happen but if he did nothing then those near misses would escalate and they wouldn't be misses anymore. His family could die and it would be his fault. Just like how it was his fault for letting Rache' get hurt.

_No,_ he protested weakly. _I didn't do that. Bane did._

Where had that gotten him? It had brought him anger and hatred and pain and the sudden fear that Rachel might not make it out this time. But where had he fallen? Where did he stand?

Rachel would need the news split to her. Coma or not, Jason needed to tell her. She deserved to know, even if she wasn't awake.

Gotham's crime was going up. There was no Bat to stop it head on and criminals weren't as afraid of them individually as they were of the Batman or them as a united force. It shouldn't be like that, why were they not feared when alone? Did they need to become more ruthless? They wouldn't kill, not here and now, but maybe the common muggers needed a few more broken bones. Maybe that would change things.

They had to crack down on the smaller guys. They had to crack down on _crime._ Criminals were scared of two things; the Bat Clan and Batman. Which meant he had to keep them together (because really, who else was there to do it?) And, there needed to be a Batman.

He looked up, vision blurry as he took a swig of whatever the hell he was drinking (he'd forgotten a while ago, wondered if he'd ever known). It swirled in the back of his mouth, dashing down his throat to add to the tortuous burn and make it tingle even more, like burnt skin being peeled, only the pain lessened as more blood dripped.

Jason blinked himself back, eyes landing on the circle his family had formed around the casket with him. They all looked so sad, so miserable. He wondered how much more the Waynes could take before something cracked, be it the supports, the floor or their bones.

He was pretty sure which one was less durable than the other two.

Barbara wasn't suitable for the Bat. Not because she was female, but because even with vocalizers her voice would never compare to B's gritty grate (which had taken him years to master). She was too short, too light, and perfectly happy as Oracle; or when the mood struck her, Batwoman.

Cassandra was Black Bat. She was more eqquiped to handle swords and daggers than Batman's suit and Batarangs. Jason doubted she would change her identity for him, even if she was unpredictable.

Steph was Spoiler. She refused to take up any other role. That had been made clear back in 2006. Too short anyway, too rebellious.

Cullen wasn't ready. He was too young, like Damian.

But Damian was hitting nineteen. Was that really too young, especially when they needed a Batman?

_Too young,_ Rachel whispered, face scrunched up as they lay in his bed one night. Her hand lingered on his neck, feeling his pulse like she did when they curled up together after a long patrol. _Don't torment him, Jay. Believe in him. He'll change when he wants to._

That was an old speech, a memory, but right now anything where Rachel was with him made him feel better so he didn't delve into it too much. He pretended she was standing by his shoulder, hand causing the pressure that the bandages were from being shot earlier. His heart ached, chest feeling tight and oddly prickly.

But if Damian would change when he wanted to, then that meant it wasn't now. That insinuated that he wasn't taking up the mantle so quickly as he'd proclaimed he would back when he was just eight.

Maybe Damian was scared.

Jason knew he was himself. So why wouldn't a kid, about two decades younger than him, not be scared too?

Tim was CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Tim was Red Robin. He was dealing with the stress of running a company whilst still stuck in the past. Batman would be too much for him.

Harper glared at him, like she knew what he was thinking, instantly Jason knew it couldn't be her. Her brother needed her and she'd stand by him, Batman held no meaning in her life when held by another's hands, he'd saved her. That was all. _Bruce_ had saved her. Bruce's Batman, not theirs. She wouldn't want it, would scowl and scream and shout or storm off. Batman wasn't the mantle for her, even if Duo wasn't quite right either.

Or Duke. No, Rachel _adored_ Duke. Jason couldn't place him in the suit with Rachel _down_ and have her come back to another one dead.

One was enough. One was always too much, but one was never enough for Death. Underwhelming for some, overwhelming for others, as they said.

Jason gulped down the rest of his drink, having picked up another along the way, and realised one very important thing.

He couldn't endanger his family anymore than they already were. He couldn't thrust a mantle that they didn't want upon them. He wasn't Bruce. He wouldn't manipulate anybody, he wouldn't do this to his loved ones — the only ones that were still left.

Jason wished for the good old days. The days of the Outlaws and Nightwing's laughter and Red Hood's real bullets—

But Red Hood was expandable. He always had been. He was nothing more than an anti-hero, a crime lord and a no-good gunner.

Once upon a time, Jason had set out with revenge on his mind. He'd been angry, and in pain at being replaced and Red Hood had been up for the grabs so he'd stolen it like he'd stolen so many lives.

He hadn't felt right in his own skin for a while now and now that he looked at it close up, he knew why. It wasn't the recent stress, or pain of death or injury. It was Red Hood.

Red Hood could die. Batman could not.

Red Hood couldn't be Jason Todd anymore because he no longer resonated within his soul. Red Hood no longer fit the agenda, and god if that didn't sound like something B would've said. But Jason Pennyworth could be Batman.

Because Batman was what he'd been looking for; a fresh start.

Plus, Gotham needed a Batman. And it didn't only have to be Bruce Wayne.

"No Patrol tonight," he said, standing. He needed to get to bed now if he wanted to attend the funeral tomorrow and slide past the hospital staff to see Rachel again after visiting hours, without a killer hangover. "Tomorrow we carry on as normal. Briefing at 18 hundred, I want you all there. Get to bed, all of you."

They groaned and protested but one by one fled upstairs. Not before long, Barbara was the only one still in the room with him.

"I can help you, Jason," she said, eyes sincere as she let the empty bottle thunk to the ground. It rolled along by itself, tapping against the leg of the table the casket was resting on. Jason couldn't bare to look at it again so he didn't, standing on weak legs and even weaker knees.

He smiled at her but it was stiff and lost, even he could tell. "That line might've worked on Rachel all those years ago but it won't work on me." He patted her shoulder in a show of trust, then, softer, "Go to bed, Barbara."

She frowned but made to brush past him, stepping back to let his hand fall short. His wrist was grabbed just as she walked by, her sharp demanding tug making him look her in the eyes. "Please," her eyes burned a clearer green than the Pit ever had. "I _can_ help. I know you need it."

"It's dealt with, Babs." He said, squeezing her hand before pulling away. He pushed her lightly towards the doorway. "We'll talk as a family on it tomorrow. Now go and deal with the impending hangover that's sure to be around tomorrow."

She sighed but left.

Jason stood there, alone, for a little longer, working up the courage in the dark. Eventually, he pulled his head up, eyes teary as he stared at the brown, gleaming casket. "Goodbye, Alfred."

As he turned and climbed the stairs after checking everything was locked, he could've sworn he heard a soft, forlorn whisper follow him upstairs.

_"Farewell, my dear boy."_

When Jason had made it to his and Rachel's cold, dusty room, he curled up in the too large, _too_ _ _empty__ bed in silence. For the first time in years, he cried.

 


	2. Heartbreak; an Emotion of its Own

 

 

Turned out Alfred's great-nephew was a total dickwad. Called Andrew or something and the guy couldn't find any of them the time of day without greeting them with sheer arrogance. The niece was hitting eighty herself and could barely hear anything other than her 'darling son's angelic voice' and could barely see anything other than the sun shining out of his ass.

It made Jason's skin prickle; so much so, by the end of it all  he was glad the two refused his offers of hospitality. He can practically see Alfred looking down at him with that frown but the man is dead. It doesn't matter and in the end they're only around for the few hours it takes to lower the coffin and have a half-decent ceremony. Of course only _Alfred_ would get something like this, so heartfelt it's sad. Bruce's had been too cold, too stiff, because it had been _Batman's._

Rachel had been adamant on Bruce Wayne being off in the Amazon. With her sleepin', things would stay that way unless they were pressed otherwise. Jason would make sure of it.

The world didn't need to know they'd lost another one.

Nothing changed the fact that for the entire thing Jason was an unbridled rock of anxiety. For the Lowering he was tense as hell and he only continued to become more stressed after the human interaction (as in, outside of his kids). Maybe he'd gotten soft, staring at Rachel all day, everyday. He highly doubted it though, because he's been staring at her for years and the worst has nearly had him cacastrated.

Rachel would _probably_ say he was getting soft but unless someone else said it he staunchly refused to believe it.

"You're getting soft, boss man." Barbara stauntered up behind him, champaign glass in her hand, cocky grin on her lips. She slapped his back with her free hand, black dress tight around her waist but free about her legs. He barely felt the slap. Everything was just so... _numb._

Jason stared down at the grave for a second longer before looking at her. His suit itched. It stabbed into him and rubbed against his skin in a way that no suit had since Rachel proclaimed she loved seeing him in them. That had been a good twenty years ago. "Don't call me that."

"But that's what you are now," Stephanie piped up from the gazebo he'd set up at 6 AM for their lazy asses. She's sitting the right way in the chair for once, simply because she's unable to sit clutching the back with her maxi dress on. It would've been funny had he had it in him to find the humour in their situation. " _boss."_

"You had it coming when you took the name," Duke shrugged when he looked around for assistance.

"What happened to 'guys stick together', Duke?" Jason snapped but he was smiling, albeit a small one that didn't really reach his eyes. It felt good to smile for once, cheeks not feeling so heavy. It was refreshing in a way he hadn't been granted in far too long.

( _"_ _A break would be nice_ _,"_ Rachel had murmured the night before Down Bat had occured. " _Something calming, not strenuous like the last camping trip._ _"_ )

"Thomas has been a traitor for a long time now, boss." Damian said and at least _someone_ wasn't teasing him. "Although do not expect me to call you that ever again."

( _"Y'sure you're thinking of the right family?"_ He'd laughed, kissing her skin. She'd been so soft under him, eyes twinkling in the moon's dreary rays.  _"These'ns don' know the meanin' of calm."_ )

Jason folded his arms. "Alright, very funny, Demon Spawn. C'mon, we need to get this cleared up before it rains."

Steph glared at the approaching thunder clouds in the distance. "Why does it have to rain _every time?_ "

That was right; it had rained for both Crystal Brown and Batman.

"It _is_ tropical season," Cass offered, standing with a flick of her hair. It was a shame to think she wanted to cut it before her mission of B's will. Jason liked it long, liked Rachel's long too.

He hoped he'd get to see it flutter in the wind one more time. Jason would give up his life for the sight.

 

 

Rachel was silent as always.

The heart monitor thrummed in contempt as Jason stepped through the open window. He'd have to tell the nurses about that later, because if he could make it through the top floor's defences just like that the Joker could just as easily fuck everything up.

His wife was paler than normal, the tubes hooked around her nose connected to the plethora of machinery that surrounded her. She'd taken a turn early this morning, 'a sudden, unexpected heart attack' the clipboard at the end of her bed said. Or, that was the minimum of Doctor Scribble that Jason could make out.

She seemed alright now, breathing slowly, heart rate good, brain still working. There was another thing to bring up in complaint; his wife could've died and he hadn't been alerted.

Maybe it was time to shift her. Get a better hospital. Surely St. Moraine's would accept her, she was in a critical enough condition for the private hospital to think about it and even then they had more than enough money to seal the deal.

He stomped over into the middle of the private room before setting down an audio distorter. Paranoia was a harsh, unrelenting beast that he'd long since stopped fighting. Bruce had taught him that much;  _trust your instincts._

Jason sat down on the rickety plastic chair, red helmet set by his feet. The domino was peeled off, any cameras he hadn't already taken down on this floor going dead. It wasn't like the hospital had anything to worry about, all the patients up top were bad off or rich and any threats that would approach the hospital would be coming in through the front doors. Well, he kinda doubted that. Even common thugs were getting more creative recently.

He'd have to look into St. Moraine's Medical Healing Institution. Home was no longer an option. Not with Alfie _dead._

"So," he began but fell short before any of his words could flow. He pulled off his gloves and grabbed Rachel's hand, rubbing small circles into it for each others benefit.

Time seemed to slow. He sat there, unmoving as he watched the clock in the far corner tick by. Rachel had been in a coma for so long now, so long it was better to not think about whether or not she'd wake up. The doctors were worried but Jason knew she'd pull through. She had to.

Nightwing always pulled through for Red Hood.

"I'm Batman now," he said when it hit three in the morning. He'd been sitting too long already, patrol long done when he'd popped in at one but now his legs ached and told him he wouldn't be standing for another few hours. "Maybe I'm getting too old, but aren't we both? The others are too young for it, Demon Sp--Damian isn't ready. And the rest of 'em don't want it. I can see why, even I'm scared to put it on."

The silence became so depressive he had to ignore it. The loudest thing in the room aside from the machinery was his wallowing.

"It's corrosive, Rache'. We both knew it, it's why he found it so hard to tell but I- I don't want that," he clutched her hand tighter. "I don't want to but I will put it on. Either for us or the family, I'm not sure yet. But... I know that the others need to be protected. They need a leader. Clark is still pissed at us and at this rate, with the way we're going, the Justice League aren't going to back _any_ Gothamite up."

The clock hit four. Jason wondered where the time went.

"I love you," he said,  standing when he reckoned his knees could take it. His bad shoulder groaned in protest as he bent over to grab his helmet. "Remember that."

( _"Love you,"_ Rachel had kissed him before they'd split up. Damian had looked away while Cullen had grinned like Cupid matching up a pair of loners.)

He could still feel her lips on his.

He grabbed the audio distorter and locked the window on the way out.

 


End file.
